


Resultant Force

by bookwormtsb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwormtsb/pseuds/bookwormtsb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before long an idea forms in my mind and I decide the put the gun to other purposes. </p><p>This is what they do, isn’t it?</p><p>Leave a note. </p><p>I believe in Sherlock Holmes. </p><p>And always will do. As much as you hurt me, you pulled me out of the horrible post service depression and I can never thank you enough. Because I was so alone. </p><p>And now your blogger is lost without his consulting detective. </p><p>I’m sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resultant Force

Lestrade’s crying and wrapping a blanket my shoulders, he keeps repeating that he’s so, so sorry over and over. I don’t bother to stop him because I’m sure that if I open my mouth the scream in my chest will escape. 

No one’s cleaned the blood off the pavement but they’ve removed the body. I can’t stop looking so Lestrade does it for me. He wraps his arms around my chest and drags me towards a police car. I’m still not screaming but I can feel it rising in my throat. 

He sits next to me as we drive to 221. I don’t bother to think about the fact that we’re holding hands. 

Then we step out of the police car and stumble onto the pavement and I notice that we’re both covered in blood, your blood. And all I can think about is how Mrs. Hudson doesn’t know and either Lestrade or I are going to have to tell her that the boy she viewed as a son has killed himself. 

But she’s in the doorway and Lestrade’s still holding my hand so tightly that my fingers might break. I couldn’t care less, actually being able to feel something would be welcome, even if it were to come in the form of broken bones. 

I think she knows almost immediately because she starts crying and Lestrade grabs her round the waist and she makes the collar of his shirt damp with tears as well as blood. She collapses into a heap when we get inside and Greg goes to tend to her, still holding onto me. I realise a moment later that I’m the one holding his hand. I don’t let go because it feels like my grip on reality, and it’s a tenuous one at that. 

We sit there until the sun rises the next day, downing endless cups of tea spiked with a heavy amount of brandy. Lestrade keeps a grip on my hand for a noble amount of time but he lets go around 2am when his phone rings and he leaves to answer it. Mycroft. He arrives 30 minutes later in a crumpled suit, looking less than dignified. He doesn’t even bother with the pretense of tea and instead drinks several glasses of brandy. His eyes looking more dead with each gulp. 

Before long everyone’s stopped crying and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are murmuring quietly to each other. Mycroft sits back and watches me with an expression like an x-ray. I think he understands why I still haven’t cried. 

I don’t go upstairs until about 8am and when I do the flat is scarily silent. At first I sit in my chair and stare around at everything that’s his, the skull, the violin, the experiments and practically everything else. 

Then the screaming starts. It bursts out of my throat and before long I can’t even see anything because I’m lying face down on the carpet, drunk and screaming. But still not crying. 

Mrs. Hudson doesn’t come up to check on me because I think she understands that it’s finally hit me. Like a fucking train. 

That night I crawl between the sheets of your bed and tug the duvet over my head, my throat burns from the screaming and I’ve lost the ability to speak. Then, and only then do I start crying. I don’t call out or shout, instead I lie there with my eyes wide open, fixed on your poster of the periodic table with tears crawling down my cheeks. 

For the next month or so I exist only on auto-pilot, barely eating and barely sleeping so that my jeans stop staying up and my eyes become bruised with tiredness. 

I see the therapist once but when I get home I punch a hole in the wall and realise that she’s a really shitty shrink. 

I visit your grave a few times but each time leaves me feeling so alone and stupid. So that when I get home I dig the gun out of the grate below the fireplace and shoot the wall to smithereens. 

Surprisingly, it helps. I can see why you used to do it. 

Before long an idea forms in my mind and I decide the put the gun to other purposes. 

This is what they do, isn’t it?

Leave a note. 

I believe in Sherlock Holmes. 

And always will do. As much as you hurt me, you pulled me out of the horrible depression post service and I can never thank you enough. Because I was so alone and I owe you so much. 

And now your blogger is lost without his consulting detective. 

I’m sorry. 

John Watson.


End file.
